The Sons of Hull (28 page)

They obediently went out, murmering, and he redirected his attention to Commander Hull. “I would like to remind you, Commander, that until the prince arrives, I am in command of the Keroulian army and I do not answer to you. And when the prince arrives,
he
will be in command of our men. You may exercise complete control over those monsters you call soldiers, but our troops do not budge until I tell them to. And I will not send them into the marshes until I hear the command from Prince Farlone himself. Is that clear?”

Amarian thought about killing the man then and there, but decided it would be wiser to bide his time. It would be better to win Keroul, not destroy it. “General, you mistake my intentions. I have no desire to usurp your authority or the prince’s. I ask only for your aid. Forgive me for dismissing the officers so abruptly. I meant no offense. But I’m glad you sent them out, because I need to tell you something.”

Although not appeased, Tengar’s curiosity checked his anger. “What do you have to tell me that you could not tell the others?”

Amarian eyed the man, wondering how familiar he was with the Ages. It was a chance he’d have to take. “There is going to come a time, probably in the middle of our marsh campaign, when I’m going to have to leave for a while. It will only be for a week or so, but I want you to know that I’m not abandoning you. I have some reinforcements that I won’t be able to muster until breach season.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I trust you, Tengar. I know that while I’m gone, you will be able to persuade Farlone that I’m not deserting him. Plus, I wanted to give you plenty of warning.”

Tengar nodded, still wary. “And these reinforcements? Who are they? Why can’t they come sooner?”

Amarian rose and walked over to the map of Rhyvelad hanging on the tent wall. It was marked with various red slashes, indicating battles, and blue lines, indicating troop movements. “They’re in preparation already, but it will take a while for them to get here, since they’re coming from beyond General Chiyo’s homeland.”

“The Far West? I thought it was pretty desolate out there. And why would these troops care about our problems? What do they want from us?”

“Nothing really. They are in my debt and I’m simply requesting repayment.”

“Well, that sounds all right. Just let me know closer to the time. And remember what I said about the prince.”

“Of course, general. Now it’s getting late and there’s much to do tomorrow.”

Tengar nodded and exited the tent without another word. As he left, Amarian shook his head. Now that the man felt himself in Hull’s confidence, he would be less likely to stir up trouble. Still, he held up his hand and an Urabi emerged from the shadows.

“Keep on eye on him. And send somebody to find General Chiyo. Tell them to stay alive this time.”

The Urabi nodded and slunk off into the darkness as Amarian turned his thoughts to Verial. Corfe had returned with Ranti several days ago to report that the group was entering the marshes. The young man was now making himself known to the generals, in preparation for Amarian’s imminent departure. Unfortunately, only one of the Sentries he had sent after Vancien and Verial had returned; the rest had managed to get themselves eaten by some brainless swamp creature. The last he knew, the same creature that had taken out his scouts had attacked Vancien’s party, as well, only to be killed by some Cylini warriors. This night, he imagined that Verial slept among the Cylini, wet, tired, and probably hungry. He closed his eyes and pictured her frustration at being trapped with such shabby company. Frigid as she was, Verial was nevertheless accustomed to deference. One day, her arrogance would undo her—whatever was left to be undone, that is. Meanwhile, she had managed to capture young Vancien’s attention and get him wounded in the process. Well done, lady, well done.

__________

The following days passed quickly and pleasantly for the four travelers. Although she could not speak the language of the Cylini, N’vonne was enjoying getting to know their customs, leaving Telenar to both practice his Cylinic and inquire into their spiritual traditions. Verial remained in their hut for much of the time, surfacing occasionally to visit with Vancien or to shadow N’vonne. Vancien, meanwhile, still had very limited use of his sword arm, but at least he was up and on his feet. He often joined Telenar in his discussions with the Cylini priests, many of whom had a working knowledge of the Keroulian tongue.

One evening, as Vancien seated himself around the fire, Telenar was deep in conversation about Cylinic history. He looked up as Vancien drew near. “Have a seat. We were just discussing the Ages.” He waved his arm in the direction of the aged priest, who was perched like an old, withered bird on the edge of his mat. “Did you know that these people only have one copy to share among their tribes? One copy! I’ve got copies in five different languages back home, one of them Cylinic. I should send it out to them when I get back.”

Vancien nodded respectfully to the holy man. “How do you know the accounts, then? How do you teach your children?”

“We know many things without pages or scrolls, young man. We know your language. We know Kynell’s.”

Telenar was so stirred by this pronouncement that he actually wriggled in his seat. “That’s what they call the accounts: Kynell’s speech! It’s fitting, if you think about it. But then that raises question of other types of divine communication. Tell me, brother, do you call all of Kynell’s work his speech?”

The man nodded. “Yes, all of it. There is no difference between words on paper and words on the heart.”

Vancien couldn’t help jumping in, painfully adjusting his wrapped shoulder as he did so. “But the Ages are written with ink: they have not changed since the time of their writing. Surely the heart can be deceived.”

Again, the man nodded. “Certainly. The Dark One’s tongue infects us all. But Kynell knows the right and wrong of it, and that is all we ask.”

“Do you—” Vancien was uncertain of how much he should reveal but could not see any reason to hide it. “Do you know who I am?”

The priest gazed thoughtfully at him before rising and stepping into the darkness. Telenar was just about to reprimand Vancien for being so forward when he returned with a small leather bag, out of which he removed a cut piece of polished clearstone. As its sharp angles caught the firelight, his weathered face turned intense. “This is only a stone, but it captures light very well. That is what prisms do, no?” He looked directly at Vancien. “Kynell has shone his light upon you. And he will shine through you in the dark times to come.” Now he turned to Telenar. “We, too, have counted the days. We know what is coming. Yet our chiefs have foolishly sought war, as have yours. We are killing our brothers when we need them most. Kynell is displeased.”

Telenar had to agree, but he felt some compulsion to defend Relgaré. “I do not think the king knew of your faith. He would not quickly attack known followers of Kynell”

The priest shook his head. “No, but he was quick to fight alongside Obsidian.” Out of the same bag, he pulled a chunk of the unpolished black rock, holding it up to the firelight. “Look. It allows no light to pass and takes for itself whatever light it receives. It is a nothingness that swallows all good that comes upon it. It has swallowed your king. If thing continue as they are, it will swallow our chiefs.”

“But our hope does not lie in kings and chiefs,” Vancien reminded him. “Our hope lies in Kynell.”

There was a silent moment as the man gazed at him. The mature wisdom that had characterized his appearance up to that point was beginning to fade, until soon he looked simply tired, old, and wrinkled. “Yes, young man, you are right.” He sighed, dumped the rocks back into the bag, and rose. “You are right, you are right. But how many souls will Kynell lose to the Chasm before he answers our prayers?” He did not wait for an answer but bade them good night and left.

“That wasn’t the response I expected.”

Telenar watched the man go. “Even old holy men get tired of watching their people became strangers to the Prysm. He has seen many a soul fly to Zyreio.”

“Because of this war?”

“More than the war, I think. Wars only separate men’s souls from their bodies. Obsidian has bigger plans than that. Dead men are no good to Amarian unless he’s already won their hearts and minds. And you can be certain that is what he is trying to do with the remainder of Relgaré’s army. I wonder how our good friend is holding up.”

__________

The scout was soaking wet, but then, they all were. The rain had not let up for several days; the grumbling of Chiyo’s men was beginning to turn into bold complaint. Some of them even postulated that they had contracted skin disease from over-exposure to moisture. Hunoi wanted to discipline them for their whining, but Chiyo had only laughed, merely assigning them an extra load to relieve the voyoté.

Despite the scout’s report that he had not seen any Cylini, and despite his suspicion that he was leading his men into a trap, Chiyo felt optimistic. Perhaps it was his relief to leave behind the king’s unwelcome ally; getting as far away from Amarian’s smothering presence as possible had become the general’s secret mission. By now, he had no intention of returning his small band to the main force. Let all of Keroul be deceived by Commander Hull; he and his men would fight the good fight while they could. Of course, that still left the problem of what to do in the meantime. Sloshing around in a swamp full of enemies was a waste of time, though Chiyo would much rather brave the Cylini than Amarian’s forces. So they had adopted a course that led them gently west, through the marshes but in the direction of the plains preceding the Plains of Jasimor.

There was a polite cough from Hunoi. “Yes, Captain?”

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but another scout has returned. He says he’s found some sort of village just southeast of here. It’s Cylini, of course. He says that—” A soft thwack interrupted his sentence, causing him to look down. To his surprise, an arrow protruded from his chest. He felt his extremities grow cold, heard Chiyo’s cry, and then, with a moan, slid to the ground. Half a second later, the wet sky was filled with Cylini arrows.

Chiyo wheeled his voyoté around. “Shields up, swords out! Stay together!”

The men didn’t need to hear the orders to obey. Soon the officers’ voyoté had scattered into the trees until they could be of more service, while cavalry and infantry combined to overlap their shields. The result was two tortoise-shells, impenetrable from a distance and deadly at close range. The formation was both effective for offense on an open battle field and useful for buying time in tight quarters. The marshes, however, were unforgiving, and the troops could go nowhere with the water up to their thighs and the enemy closing in. The arrows battered against them for what seemed like an eternity. Did the Cylini have an endless supply of them? Chiyo knew that without reinforcements they would shortly have no choice but to surrender or be slaughtered. He pondered it for a moment. Better to yield sooner than later—they had already lost several men in the initial barrage. He waited until a break in the onslaught, then thrust out his arm through the shields and plunged his sword into the mud and water. The hilt was hardly visible above the sludge, so he waited a few breaths until the symbol could be recognized. Then he stepped out with his hands raised high.

“Mercy!”

Several arrows continued to whiz by; those Cylini who had crept close looked tempted to take advantage of an unarmed, high-ranking officer. But it did not take long for one of their commanders to acknowledge the gesture. He barked an order and his men began to form a restless circle around the troops, who maintained their defensive position. Pointing to the two shells, the commander addressed Chiyo in stilted Keroulian.

“Do they give up, too?”

Chiyo nodded and shouted back to the ranks. “Lower your shields! We surrender this time!” As the shells obediently disintegrated, he turned back to the commander.

“We surrender. What are your terms?”

The Cylini leader eyed his enemy through the downpour. When he finally spoke, his demand was unconditional surrender. Chiyo nodded, ordering the Keroulians to hand over their weapons, which the marsh warriors took eagerly enough. Stripped of their arms, he and his men were led in the direction from which the second scout had come.

It was a long, depressing march. The vision of Hunoi disappearing beneath the water kept replaying in Chiyo’s mind. It had all happened so quickly. One minute, his captain was speaking to him, the next, he was dead. Chiyo shook his head; he couldn’t process or grieve over Hunoi’s death right now. That would have to wait until he had secured the safety of those still alive.

Before long, they arrived at a village. Chiyo eyed its fenced platforms with concern. Surely the Cylini would not have resources for almost fifty prisoners. Had he ordered his men to surrender only to face execution? He had no time to consider this possibility before the gate to the compound opened and their captor exchanged a few words with a man inside. Even with his decent grasp of the Cylini language and the lightening rain, Chiyo could only pick out parts of what the men were saying. What he did hear, however, startled him.

The Cylini word for Keroulians was “Nwcherov” or “the winded ones,” referring both to the high winds that could race across the region north of the Duvarian Range and to the extensive (and uncalled for, to many minds) spread of Keroulian culture. The Cylini commander mentioned this term a few times while he indicated captives, but to Chiyo’s surprise, the other man repeatedly pointed inside to the “Nwcherov.” Were there other Keroulians here? Chiyo assumed that his band had been the first scouting mission Relgaré had sent into the swamp, but maybe he had been mistaken. He watched with interest as a priest joined the discussion, began to vigorously shake his head, and pointed like the other man to the huts behind him. Meanwhile, the Cylini warriors were growing impatient: standing guard in the water when warmth and rest were only a few steps away was beginning to make them irritable. Finally, the triumvirate at the gate made some sort of decision. Chiyo and his men then were led to up onto a smaller, adjacent walled platform. It was empty of any comfort or furniture, but at least it was dry. As the Keroualians clamored inside, several surly guards remained to ensure their good behavior.